


The Husband Heist

by cametobuyplums



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bucky is Also Clueless, Bucky is a Wholesome American Man, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Heist, Love at First Sight, Married Life, Reader is a Spy, Smut, fic request, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cametobuyplums/pseuds/cametobuyplums
Summary: Some heists usually target someone of ill-repute like a corrupt businessman whereas others heists are content with a plain old criminal. This heist? Neither. This heist is all about securing the perfect man. And that perfect man just so happens to be James "Bucky" Barnes.What happens when a spy trades in night vision goggles for a white picket fence? Can secrets remain secrets?





	1. The Big Score

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marshmalloween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshmalloween/gifts).



> Hello, loves. I'm so excited because someone requested a fic! Thank you so much [Marshmalloween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshmalloween/profile) for thinking of me, I am truly humbled that you would want me to put your idea into words. I hope you enjoy this story!
> 
> I am always open to requests, [you can pop by here to ask for one](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/ask/). 
> 
> Thank you to the ever wonderful [Reality Rejection Service](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5508961/) for being my beta reader, goodness knows how messy my grammar would be without you.
> 
> I truly hope you all like this story. Please leave a comment, I always love to hear your comments and feedback, both of which are enormously appreciated.

Obscene wealth. The party is as much a _parade_ as it is a _celebration_. A chance for _them_ to best each other; who's drowning in more diamonds, who's Botox is better, whose wife is the youngest. Hardly newsworthy but you snatch a flute of champagne from the silver haired waiter all the same, an elbow propped on the bar as your eyes scan the room. A redhead in a vivid emerald dress catches your eye. She looks bored with the young men she's surrounded by, all of them trying to earn a night with her probably.

"Can I get you a drink?"

You cast a glance to your left. He's handsome enough, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, goatee perfectly groomed and an outrageous Bulgari watch on his wrist, deliberately worn beyond the sleeve of his tux. He smiles, and you judge the look in his eyes. He's a predator and you're his prey. You raise your flute.

"I've already got one."

"Champagne? Doesn't seem like your drink."

"Oh, I bet you have all me figured out, don't you?"

"Let me buy you a drink," he insists, waving at the bartender. "You can tell me if I'm right. Which by the way, I am."

"No, thank you," you decline. "I'm here with someone."

"Yeah? What's he thinking leaving you all by yourself?"

"I'm not interested." you snap.

"Just one drink, sweetheart."

"The lady says she's not interested." says a firm voice.

You smirk as Mr. Just One Drink scowls. Your date, Mr. Leland Owlsley, looks on sternly and places a hand on your lower back, encouraging you to your feet. You make a show of stumbling, spilling your champagne in the process and a good portion of it ends up on his pure white cuff. He curses, and you pout, your bottom lip trembling.

"Oh, Leland," you sniff. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, dear," he says through a tight-lipped smile. "I'll just run it under the tap, make sure it doesn't stain."

The old man traipses to the gents- you hear him curse you the entire way. Flashing a smile at the silver haired waiter, you follow in Leland's path. He's still muttering about you, vulgar words about how if it weren't for your firm ass he'd be so mad by now. He stops when he catches you in the mirror, smiling coyly from behind him.

"You young girls like to keep me on my feet." he croons, and you giggle, stepping closer.

His eyes flutter close when your fingers brush the crotch of his $800-dollar pants. You grin, drawing your hand back before promptly thumping him in the dick. He yelps, and you smash his head against the tiled wall, knocking him out instantly.

"Ssh, you take it easy now." you purr, dragging him into a cubicle.

You prop Leland up, careful to make sure none of his limbs show before patting him down. The keycard you're looking for is in his inside pocket and you slide it out triumphantly. Giving yourself a once over in the expansive mirror, you slip out the restroom, running straight into the chest of Mr. Just One Drink. He quirks an eyebrow.

"Show the old man a good time?"

"I think he needs a few minutes to recover, his poor heart."

You march across the hallway to the elevators, subtly checking there's no security guards before slipping past the sliding doors. Mr. Just One Drink comes in after you, leaning on the handlebar. You swipe the card and press the button for the restricted floor. He glances at you from the corner of his eye.

"You didn't really blow him, did you?"

"No, just jerked him off." you reply dryly.

Cackles fill the elevator and you crack a small smile. The elevator dings open and you both straighten up. It's time to work. Leland, bless him, has already given you the grand tour. It was just a ploy to stroke his ego, of course. It saves you the trouble of locating his office though, and in less than forty-five seconds, you're at his desk, switching on his computer.

"Alright, gorgeous, tell me all your dirty little secrets."

Meet Tony Stark, tech genius. IT Guru by day and playboy by night, there's no device he can't hack- and Leland Owlsley's computer is no different. Tony cracks his knuckles and pulls the keyboard close, fingers racing at a million miles an hour. You perch on the edge of the desk, crossing your legs and glancing around the office. You should remember to send Leland a thank you card for your dress, it is Valentino after all.

"Did you actually jerk the old man off or are you just pulling my leg?" asks Tony, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"It's a legitimate question. I need to know if it's possible to get it up at that age without medicinal aids."

"You're not even fifty yet."

"I have you to keep me young."

"Flirt with me later, we're pressed for time."

"I guess foreplay's dead, huh?"

Thirteen minutes pass, the silence punctuated only by Tony's typing and the occasional murmur when he hits a snag. Your head jerks up when the door opens, a mop of silver hair poking through the small gap. He's armed with a screwdriver, furniture polish and a microfibre cloth. His pale eyes narrow into mere slits.

"You are meant to be done by now, Mr. Robot."

"Thirty seconds, Flash."

It turns out to be thirty-one seconds. Cue the lecture peppered with Sokovian swear words courtesy of Pietro Maximoff, otherwise known as The Cleaner. Fingerprints are dutifully wiped, and security footage is doctored, erasing any trace of your presence. He's fast and efficient, meaning you slip back downstairs in time to find Leland rousing from his impromptu nap. He blinks owlishly, his head raised on your bared leg as you frown down at him with feigned concern. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, you know he's come around because he's peeking through the thigh high slit of your dress. You idly wonder if he enjoys the view of your Batman underwear.

The restroom door crashes open and one of Leland's goons comes hurtling in thunderously. His eyes widen when he finds you crouched over his boss, spitting out a few apologies. You reply with reassurances, flirtatiously giggling a story about how you let yourself get carried away. Apparently, you're _that_ talented with your mouth that Leland blacked out. The old man doesn't protest, why would he? You smashed his skull hard enough to give him a concussion and he has no problem believing your little tale. He's a smug son of a bitch as he departs with you on his arm, boasting to his business partners as you whisper in his ear about popping to the ladies' room.

High heels echo down the marbled hallway. The sound doubles when the redhead with the green dress falls into step beside you. The cold night air stings your eyes, the harsh wind whipping at your skin and you're grateful to find the car waiting for you. Crinkled eyes meet you in the rear-view mirror.

Clint Barton aka The Driver. He watches better from a distance and you can always count on him to be outside, inconspicuous and the engine running. Tonight, there's no need for a speedy getaway. He's confident you'll make it to your arranged meeting on time.

"Any problems, boss?"

"Went off without a hitch."

"The old man?"

"Clueless as always."

"Oh, I think you made quite the impression," interjects a Russian drawl. "He didn't even flirt with me once."

"You had enough attention to keep you occupied," you grin slyly, and Clint's eyes narrow in the mirror.

"Relax, honey," she says. "I punctured their balls with my Jimmy Choos."

Introducing Natasha Romanoff, more commonly known as The Muscle. Born and bred in the harsh winters of Russia, the redhead has the almost inhuman ability to floor a roomful of men twice her size. She's been known to choke your enemies with her killer thighs, and, more often than not, Tony has questioned if Clint ever dared to get between them. If he did, his guffaw doesn't show it. Natasha leans over the seats and presses a kiss to Clint's cheek. You're still waiting for the day that their public displays of affection compromise a job.

"We're here, boss."

The waterfront is murky, gravel and grey stones crunch beneath your high heels as you slide out of the car and into the stationery black SUV, Natasha following suit just as fluidly. Wilson Fisk stares back at you impassively, his loyal lapdog James Wesley seated to his right. The stench of power assaults you, it's not unusual but it infuriates you anyway. It's always the same story with men, always wanting to exert their authority especially when they're filthy rich. You respond the same way you always do, straightened shoulders and a powerful smirk of your own. After all, you have something he desperately wants.

Natasha is quick to express her disappointment. She was rather looking forward to a little tussle, but you knew it would never escalate beyond strongly worded threats. Wilson Fisk is a clever man; every step is carefully calculated and he won't spill blood unless it's unnecessary. Much to your relief of course, you're a spy, not a soldier. You'll break as many laws as you fancy but killing is not in your nature. Trading secrets is one thing, putting individuals- particularly the innocent- in harm's way is a hard limit.

Clint concurs with you, happy that the night is over. Although, that's because he has a lasagne waiting to be cooked and a new Netflix series he wants to watch with his beloved wife. That, and he hasn't been able to take his eyes off her figure-hugging dress all night. You check in with the others, ensuring their safety before Clint drops you off first. _Home sweet home._

* * *

A chill rouses you from your sleep. The apartment feels… _colder_ than usual. The bed… _emptier_ than what you're familiar with. Sunshine is beaming behind the blinds that shield your windows, but even that feels frosty in your sullen mood. You blink the haze from your eyes, trying to recall dreams of being wrapped up in arms that are warmer than your blankets and waking up to lazy kisses instead of a screeching alarm clock. Once your sanctuary, your bedroom is a hell you're growing to resent. Your entire apartment is a void, the artwork you've carefully curated, the expensive kitchen appliances you took pride in installing, the paints you sourced from an English village, they're meaningless.

Trapped. Confined by the boundaries of the life you've created- no, the life you were _born_ into. You can't remember a life before all this. You struggle to resurface any kind of memory as you throw a punnet of blueberries into a shopping cart. It's a Saturday morning and the supermarket is rife with families. You weave through them, wondering if you ever had parents who let you dress up as a princess or a superhero. Did you have a brother? An older one who taught you how to punch the bullies. Or maybe a sister who taught you how to dance to the latest boy band songs?

Breaking free of your agency is the one real thing you've ever done for yourself. You suppose that in the deepest depths of your soul, you wanted more from your life. The wish was always there, repressed by layers of pride and confidence in being the best at your job. One-night stands are easier to manage when you're busy travelling and living under falsely constructed identities. Although you're certainly not an assassin, your job still warrants caution. You won't risk putting an innocent person in danger based on the reckless choices you make about your own life.

Spaghetti Bolognese was the first dish you ever learned to cook. It's a source of comfort, grounding you when you need it and warming to the point you're acknowledging you aren't in fact a heartless bitch. Tonight, it practically reduces you to tears because you've made a little too much. It would be nicer to have someone to share it with, rather than packing the leftovers away in the fridge for tomorrow.

Luckily, your phone buzzes and you readily agree to the welcome distraction of a night out with your crew. You scarf down what's left of your spaghetti and before you leave, you pack the leftovers in a takeout box to give to Homeless Hal who sleeps by the Subway.

* * *

Spring Lounge is the epitome of a New York dive bar but it's an old haunt you wouldn't change for the world. You learn to ignore the smell of socks and dust after a couple of drinks. The European tourists aren't the best, but you eye them anyway, because it's easier going home with someone who most likely won't be here tomorrow. You spot your crew easily, seated at the usual table that's furthest from the jukebox. They all jeer at your arrival. Because you're the last one to arrive the first round is on you.

"To another successful job." toasts Tony, raising his bottle.

A cheer rings out and you take a large swig that doesn't escape his attention. He stays silent though, sipping his own beer.

"You know, we could go to a nice place for once," suggests Tony. "It's not like we can't afford it."

"I think I'm done playing dress up for now." you answer, and Natasha agrees.

"But your dress was so pretty," cries Wanda, from her perch on Vis' lap. "You should wear it to the engagement party!"

A weak smile forms on your face. You're happy for her, truly, you are. She's found a man who loves her like an equal and in spite of what she does for a living. She allows herself to be vulnerable around him because she feels safe enough to do so. He's a little socially awkward- alright, he talks like a robot- but you're not blind to the depthless love he has for her. Jarvis popped the question two weeks ago, quietly one Sunday afternoon after cooking Paprikash. Wanda claims it was singularly the most romantic moment of her life.

You watch from the sidelines as Natasha and Wanda's bond strengthens over a rousing discussion about dress fittings and cake tastings. Tony watches beadily as you gulp down the remainder of your beer, your stool scraping loudly against the wooden floor as you mutter about getting another drink. Upon your return, you notice that Pietro is gone. You glance around questioningly, and Clint rolls his eyes.

"He downloaded Grindr again," he says. "Phone's been going off all damn night."

"Well, I think it's great," scolds Natasha, tapping his nose. "He's putting himself out there."

"He's young," nods Tony. "Why shouldn't he have some fun?"

"Yeah," you chime in. "At your age it's just embarrassing."

Tony gasps, feigning offence and everyone laughs. Before he can defend himself, Wanda giggles.

"It wasn't Grindr," she says to general astonishment. "Pietro's met someone. I think he's quite serious about this guy."

Wanda is immediately inundated with prying questions, all of which she deflects because it's Pietro's business and he'll share it when he's ready. There's a collective groan, more to acknowledge that Wanda is infuriatingly right, and the subject is dropped. You wish it weren't so, because now _you're_ the focus of their attention. You quickly put up your hands.

"Oh no," you warn. "I am not discussing my love life. And no, Nat, you are not setting me up with one of Clint's cousins again."

Clint jumps to Cousin Barney's defence but Natasha grimaces, quietly citing that he had an unnatural fetish for your sneezing. Jarvis looks uncomfortable, even more so when Tony teases you.

"Now now, fellas," he says reasonably. "It's not like she hasn't seen any action recently. In fact, just yesterday she punched Leland Owlsley in the dick."

"Shut up, Tony." you mumble with a roll of your eyes.

He winks at you as the conversation turns into dissecting the finer points of the Fisk Job and you smile gratefully. You suppose it's why you end up walking back to Tony's penthouse, your arm looped through his. There's a chill in the air, but the aftermath of five beers is enough to keep you warm and Tony's jokes keep you distracted enough. He doesn't bother to ask you if you'd like to come up, he simply holds the door open for you and lets you lead the way. Proper decorum has been abandoned for three years now.

Tony shuts the front door and your lips are on his, the alcohol adding urgency to your steps as you pull him down the hallway. You leave behind a trail of clothes and it's methodical rather than seductive. Once upon a time you would undress Tony and he would slowly peel off your layers in turn but now it's simply a means to an end. There's nothing sensual about the way he kisses down your neck, he knows the exact spots that drive you wild and he zeroes in on them, nipping lightly enough to coax a moan or two from you as your hand wraps around him, stroking him the way you know he does himself. He grabs a condom from his bedside drawer and after a few teasing thrusts, he sets a fast pace. Your fingers curl themselves in his hair as you close your eyes, letting him drive you over the edge and into bliss.

You don't feel any happier in your afterglow than you did earlier. A hollow ache settles in your ribs as you roll on to your side, lightly tracing the faint scars that litter Tony's chest. You are the one person he trusts to see him at his most vulnerable because as much as he acts the playboy caught up in his glamorous world of technology, in his heart of hearts he's as lonely as you.

Howard and Maria Stark died in a tragic accident when Tony was eighteen, around the time he met you. You were on the run, having broken free of the agency you'd been working for since you were old enough to walk. Two lost souls, who found friendship and comfort in one another. And then came the ultimate betrayal, Tony's business partner sold him out to dangerous men in the Middle East. A twisted plot that taught you more about the ironies of international politics than watching the news ever did. It was with the help of your newly formed crew that you extracted Tony and brought him back home. He's by no means a billionaire, but his name is well known amongst the technological ranks. And he's your best friend.

"Tony," you say quietly. "Do you ever wish you had someone?"

"I've got you, don't I?" he says with a wry smile.

"You know what I mean."

Tony stares up at the ceiling, mulling your words over in his head.

"I'm in love with Pepper." he admits, and you smile.

"Your assistant? I like her."

"You only like her because she tells me what to do."

"That's why you like her too."

"Touché."

Tony falls silent and you giggle. Pepper Potts is a fiery woman who towers over him. He might hold the official title of CEO but you both know that she's really the one who runs the show. She's strong, independent and a ruthless businesswoman. She's also been a constant in Tony's life since he branched out on his own.

"Does she know?" you press and Tony snorts.

"She knows everything, even the things I don't tell her. God, what a woman."

"You should tell her Tony, you deserve a chance at happiness."

"And you?" he prompts, rolling on to his side. "Don't you deserve to be happy too?"

"I don't have a Pepper in my life," you say offhandedly. "And even if I did… I don't know how to have a relationship."

"You have at least six."

"We bonded over espionage."

"Hey, this is the future," cries Tony. "I bet you fifty bucks there's an app for that."

He gasps, brown eyes glowing with gold as his excitement rises.

"SpyNet," he exclaims. "The super-secret service for spies looking to uncover love."

You snort and bury your face in the pillow to drown out your laughter. Tony scowls and elbows you, he's upset you aren't in full support of his new business idea. You howl harder, tears streaming from your eyes but there's no mistaking the smile on his face. He's glad to have cheered you up.

"Failing that, there's always Thor's birthday party next week," he reminds you. "Who knows? Maybe one of his royal buddies will sweep you off your feet and whisk you away to Europe."

* * *

"Supplies?"

"Hairspray, eyeshadow blending brush, sexy smelling perfume."

"Ammunition?"

"False eyelashes, the nice ones that flutter when you bat them."

"Back up?"

"The dress is backless."

"Alright, troops, Operation Husband is officially a-go."

Natasha and Wanda are your recruits, your aids and more than anything you suppose, your closest friends. You invited them to spend the day with you because a girly day has been overdue for quite some time now. The day starts with brunch, bottomless of course, because you need to be plied with plenty of prosecco in order to confess the true nature of your invitation. Your French toast ends up on the receiving end of a few tears after you confess that you're lonely. Nat and Wanda hasten to reassure you that you will always have them and you nod, but tearfully explain that it's not the same thing. It's odd to admit it but you don't want the fast and furious lifestyle anymore. You want to settle down, get married, have a back garden and a white picket fence, maybe a couple of dogs and plenty of cacti.

"Cacti?" echoes Natasha, quirking a brow. "That's very specific."

"If you make fun of my fantasies you can pay for your own Eggs Benedict."

An apology is issued and you finally make your way to the spa. Typically, your girl time is more drinking and dancing and less Real Housewives of NYC, but after the sudden onslaught of stress, the massages are more than welcome.

"You should find someone rich," says Wanda, voice muffled by the massage table. "So we can get massages every week."

"She's already loaded," snorts Natasha. "She doesn't need a man for money. Marry someone with a big dick."

"Men with big dicks are awful in bed," you counter. "They think half the job is done just because they've taken off their pants and shown you they're well endowed."

"Hear hear!" whispers your masseuse and you all giggle.

"I just want a nice guy," you sigh. "Someone handsome, intelligent and down to earth. I want him to be kind and have a wicked sense of humour. Just a wholesome, nice man."

* * *

Bucky straightens his collar for what he estimates to be the seventh time since leaving his apartment. He's grateful to have an invitation to Thor's official birthday party, but he won't deny that he's looking forward to the unofficial one more. That is, the one where he can drink beer, throw some darts and wear a comfy t-shirt. For now, he must settle on a sharp suit and mingling. It's an occupational hazard of working a political campaign, but Thor's one of the nicer diplomats. That and he's a childhood friend.

Out in the Hamptons, in an absurdly lavish mansion, the party's already in full swing. There's a short queue of people on the front path waiting to be welcomed by the man of the hour who stands impressively at the front door. Bucky surreptitiously checks the attire of the other guests. He's opted for his favourite navy suit tonight, the one with the black lapels, and a white shirt with the top couple of buttons casually undone. Confident he's made the right decision, he checks his phone to find a text telling him that Steve and Sam are already inside.

With his phone commanding all of his attention, Bucky pays little mind to where he's going- and that's when it happens. He walks into someone, or rather, _knocks_ into them and throws them completely off-balance, judging by their little shriek. Luckily, his quick reflexes kick in and he catches his unwitting victim before almost dropping them again.

Bucky has _no_ idea who the woman in his arms is, but she's _beautiful._ Startled eyes look up at him, they're bright and warm and he would be only too happy to lose himself in them. Her lips are parted, invitingly so and he wonders if they're as soft as they look. She's peering up at him through her lashes and a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips. They curve upwards, as does one of her brows. Her eyes dart down and his follow, finding the reason for her apparent amusement.

In his haste to catch her, Bucky's hands have firmly cupped around her ass. He blushes a violent shade of crimson, steadying her on her feet and snatching his hands back. He's dropped his phone without realising and he bends down to retrieve it. She's still smiling and Bucky curses inwardly at making a fool of himself in front of such a divine woman. He clears his throat, cheeks still hot with mortification.

"Normally, I get to know a girl before I make a move like that, but I guess your ass looks too good to resist."

He winks, lest she think he's being serious. It's only then that the realisation dawns on him that he sounds like a pervert. He winces. He's usually so smooth and charming, so _where_ did that _horrendous_ line even _come_ from? His cringe physically ripples through him as he waits for her to knee him in the balls, but to his enormous surprise, she _laughs_. It's musical, light and airy, and pretty- just like she is. It makes his heart skip a beat and butterflies bloom in his belly.

Bucky's drawn to her instantly. He wants to know if she prefers tea or coffee. What did she want to be growing up? Does she like to wake up early or hit the snooze button five times?

"You're cheeky," she grins. "I like that."

Bucky's a lovesick fool for her already, grinning goofily as she walks away. His eyes unabashedly roam over her and he's pleased with what he finds. Her dress sways sensually with every step. It's a floor length red gown that hugs her body in all the right places and leaves her back bare, the smooth skin exposed to him. It's not exactly a surprise that she turns heads as she sashays to the front door, bypassing the queue and greeting Thor with affectionate familiarity. She disappears inside and Bucky is left standing on the front lawn, drooling over her like an idiot.

Thor is busy with his guests, and therefore _no_ help in identifying the woman of his dreams. He manages to squeeze in a quick hello and a formal handshake before the big, burly blonde turns to the elderly couple next in line. As he makes his way through the house, his eyes scan the crowd but she's nowhere to be found. There's no trace of her red dress or click of her strappy high heels. It's disappointing and he wilts visibly. He traipses to the open bar to find his two best friends sipping bourbon.

Steve Rogers is Bucky's oldest friend. They grew up together in Brooklyn and have forged an unbreakable bond of brotherhood. Steve's an accountant, which is probably boring, but he's highly skilled (which ultimately landed him the job of working with Bucky), so he can't complain _too_ much. Sam Wilson meanwhile, is a former military man. He's a trained therapist now who works with war veterans- which is how he ended up working on the campaign too. He helps Alexander Pierce make those all-important connections with the community.

"I just met the love of my life."

Bucky sighs dramatically, propping his elbows on the bar. He rests his chin in his palms and smiles dreamily, mind consumed with the memory of her in his arms. The men either side of him exchange raised eyebrows. Steve Rogers is amused. Sam Wilson, not so much.

"You say that every time you come back from Starbucks."

"I mean it this time."

"You say that too."

"I'm going to marry this woman." he declares, waving down the bartender.

Bucky is highly aware of how utterly ridiculous he sounds. It's a far cry from the suave, sweet-talker who's been known to charm the many young ladies of New York but in truth, he's always been something of a hopeless romantic. For as long as he can remember, all he's wanted is to find his soulmate. The person he's going to spend the rest of his life with and grow old with. He wants a home that's filled with love, children and dogs. He wants to buy roses and sneak loving glances over candlelit dinner. In short, Bucky loves love.

"Where is she then?" prompts Steve, not unkindly. "Your future wife?"

Bucky frowns because he actually has no idea where she is. He vows to spend the entire night searching for her if he must. He also vows he'll have his wits about him this time because he's not confident he'll get a third chance. That is, if he stands a chance at all. A woman like that is bound to be snatched up by eager suitors.

And then he hears it, that musical laughter he wants to be the cause of. Bucky whirls around to find the source. If it's possible, she's more beautiful than ever. A vision of beauty illuminated by the crystal chandelier. Time slows down until it almost stops altogether. Her hands smooth over her dress, her bare leg just peeking through the dangerously high slit. She stands in the centre of the room, tall and elegant.  There's a redheaded woman beside her, and a brunette with black fingernails. On her left is a young man with silvery blond hair, he seems adept at snatching vol-au-vents off passing trays so fast you'd blink and miss it. Her mouth moves as she says something, and Mr. Quicksilver chuckles, his arm curling around her waist as he whispers something in her ear.

Bucky growls, the sound escaping without his realising and his friends are quick to follow his gaze. Steve raises his eyebrows. Sam whistles lowly.

"She is so out of your league, Barnes."

"Can it, Wilson." he snaps. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Steve nods, dutifully agreeing with his best friend.

"How did you meet?"

Bucky blushes and raises his glass, hoping that he can hide behind the carved crystal rim, but it only raises Steve's suspicions and Sam prods him, pressing for an answer. It's with great reluctance that he reveals the truth, and no sooner does he finish his tale that both men are practically howling with laughter. Bucky shoves them both in the shoulder, grumbling unsavoury swears at them under his breath.

"How you gonna recover from that, huh, Barnes?"

"I got an idea."

* * *

Thor's birthday is everything you expect and more. Namely, the formalities and the schmoozing. You're old hat at it by now, it's a role you play pretty convincingly. The trick is to subtly flirt with the older men, enough to stroke their ego without being obvious. The younger men are easy, they're all opinionated and fancy themselves the saviours of the nation so politics is a good subject. As for the women, comment on the interior decoration, pepper in several exclamations of what a wonderful party it is and inquire after their dazzling jewellery. It's a boring routine but at least Thor has a good taste in alcohol.

You and Natasha are on a mission, that is, persuading Pietro to divulge the details of his secret boyfriend. So far, he hasn't succumbed, but you persist enough to be told that said secret boyfriend is intelligent, sweet and a firecracker in bed. It's all said with such a doting smile you're thrilled Pietro has found someone who makes him happy. You tell him as much, pushing down the ever-present loneliness.

"Pardon me, ma'am."

A waiter stands before you, his white jacket and shirt dazzlingly bright. He has a tray held aloft in his white gloved hand, a single flute of champagne resting on it. Your eyes dart between it and the waiter.

"From the gentleman at the bar."

You look past the professional smile towards the bar. It's him. The man with the sparkling blue-grey eyes and chiselled cheekbones. His pink lips form a charming smile, highlighting the strong line of his jaw that's peppered in a light scruff that's as dark as the slightly fluffy mop of hair on his head. There's a distinct flutter in your chest as he raises his glass. He's gorgeous, the kind of man who incites reactions only described in romance novels. Your skin warms over as you remember the way he checked you out earlier. And he's doing it again now.

The waiter clears his throat quietly and you turn your attention back to him.

"Could you please tell him I'd rather drink it with him?"

The waiter nods, flashing you a discreet wink which you appreciate. You grin as the information is relayed, the man's pink tongue darting out to wet his lips as he grins back. The magic is shattered when Wanda giggles.

"What the hell was that about?" quips Natasha mischievously.

"Operation Husband might have gotten off to a great start."

Rather disappointingly, the man doesn't approach you after that. Perhaps you'd made the wrong move. Or perhaps you've jinxed it with your eagerness. You're doomed to be alone forever, surrounded by couples living their happily ever after. Thor's mansion suddenly feels stuffy, and you escape into the garden for some fresh air. It's quieter out here and you breathe freely, making your way through the paths marked by low hedges and archways draped in twinkling lights. It's pretty, romantic, and you hear the odd faint giggles. Natasha and Clint, you think.

"Beautiful."

There's that voice, low and deep. It's rough, you place it in Brooklyn. There's something about the way his accent lifts at certain syllables that makes you melt. Your belly does a somersault at the sound but you try to conceal it with a coy smile.

"It is, isn't it?" you agree, glancing around the garden.

"I wasn't talkin' about the garden."

He's beside you now and you take the opportunity to study him. A seasoned habit, something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. You're trained to pick up on even the tiniest of details. The coarse grey hairs just off his chin. The slate grey tone to his otherwise blue eyes. A slight cleft in his chin. A soft smattering of hair under his collarbone. You place him in his thirties. His suit is tailored, tapering to his figure neatly. Polished black shoes free of scuff marks. A Cartier watch. He's a young professional with a better than average paycheck. There's no tie around his neck, the first few buttons of his shirt are undone and his cheeks bear a flush that's the result of a few drinks. He doesn't take himself too seriously. His smile makes you swoon, and you're already convinced he's the perfect man.

"I didn't get to apologise for earlier," he says earnestly, falling into step with you. "I should've said sorry instead of that corny line."

"It _was_ corny," you tease. "But I think you've made up for it."

"Yeah?" he grins. "Damn, I had a few tricks up my sleeve. Was hopin' to use them."

"Oh, now I'm intrigued, Casanova."

"Bucky," he says, holding out his hand. "The name's Bucky, sweetheart."

You offer your name in return as you reach for his hand. He doesn't shake it, rather presses a kiss to your knuckles and it makes you giggle. Something he undoubtedly appreciates because his eyes light up and he beams down at you.

"In case it wasn't obvious, you look absolutely stunning." he says lowly, eyes tracing your length.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Casanova," you drawl, faintly running your palm down his chest. "Blue is quite the colour on you."

"And you're a vision in red," he flirts brazenly. "The colour was made for you."

"Hm, not everyone agrees. A few people think this dress is a little too… bold."

"It's perfect," he says immediately. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone so beautiful."

"Is this one of your tricks? Flattery?"

Bucky shrugs.

"Depends- is it workin'?"

"I don't know. You should carry on, see if it gets you anywhere."

"I'd do anythin' if it meant five more minutes with you."

"Just five?" you tease playfully and he chuckles.

"It's more than I deserve after I almost knocked you on your ass."

"Yes, you saved yourself by grabbing my ass instead."

"You're more than welcome to grab mine. Even the playing field."

You laugh out loud and Bucky looks pleased with himself. You're walking in circles now, but you don't care. You'd walk around forever with him.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself first?" you purr, hooking your arm through his. "Then I'll get my hands on you."

Bucky, or James Buchanan Barnes, is a thirty-six-year-old man born and bred in Brooklyn, New York. He studied History and Russian at university, before entering the ever-changing landscape of Politics. Currently, he's working on Alexander Pierce's political campaign. He's a big fan of basketball, has a soft spot for golden retrievers and drinks iced coffee whatever the weather. His favourite colour is blue, can eat his body weight in pancakes and goes to karaoke every week.

"And you, sweetheart?" he asks. "What's a smart woman like you do?"

"I… run my own business," you answer. "I… I'm an event planner."

 _Event_ _planner_. Was that the best you could do? Strictly speaking, none of what you've said is an outright lie. It's simply a stretch of the truth. Bucky doesn't question it, accepting your answer easily.

"I'll bet you're the best," he says proudly. "You've got good taste, after all."

"What makes you say that?"

"You're hangin' out with me," he grins cheekily and you laugh. "No, but really, you seem like a woman who likes to be in charge."

"Oh?" you smirk, stopping in your tracks to face him.

"Yup," he nods, eyes watching you splay your palms against his chest. "The kinda woman who knows what she wants. Gets what she wants."

"And what is it I want, Casanova?"

Bucky's hands find your waist, heat sparking where his fingers brush the bare skin of your back. His chest is almost flush against yours and you can feel heat radiating from it. You feel dizzy, blissfully so, under the lustful gaze of his darkened eyes.

"You want to be wanted," he whispers, hot breath fanning your ear. "You want a man who knows how to treat you right. A man who's gonna make you feel like the queen you are. A man who's gonna fulfill every single one o' your fantasies."

"And you," you breathe out, inhaling in his musky cologne. "Are you that man, Casanova?"

A filthy grin that promises love and lust in equal measure greets you.

"I am, sweetheart."

"Take me home and prove it."

Bucky lives in a modest apartment in Brooklyn. Ever the gentleman, he offers to hang your coat up before asking if you want a drink. You can smell a serial killer a mile off, and as far as you can tell, he isn't one. So you accept his offer of a glass of whiskey and you take the opportunity to inspect his apartment, silently praising him for not living in a typical bachelor pad.

* * *

It's a 1900 railroad apartment, but deceptively so considering the tall windows and charming hallmarks of a timeworn New York home. It's crafted, combining his masculinity and his maturity in a subtle way. A couple of Danish mid-century couches, a wool dhurrie rug, a vintage record stand complete with record player and glass terrariums filled with healthy succulents. A World War Two desk chair sits by a shelf of books, close to a dining nook tucked away in the corner. A television sits atop the fireplace, backed by red bricks. It's all old school charm, much like the man himself.

You turn around at the sound of Bucky's footsteps. For a well-built man he's surprisingly light on his feet. He hands you a glass and you take a sip, eyeing him from over the rim.

"You have a lovely home."

"Thank you," he smiles genially. "'S almost as lovely as you."

"Seeing where else flattery will get you?" you giggle playfully.

"Well, it's got you to my apartment." he muses in a gravelly voice.

"And now I'm here," you say in a sultry voice. "What are you going to do with me?"

Bucky gently prises the glass from your hand, setting your drinks down on the coffee table and then he steps close. He's pretty, if you can call a man that. He's looking at you with unabashed want and it's a promise that he's going to devour you.

"How 'bout I show you, sweetheart?"

Bucky's face is illuminated by the city lights and the soft glow of his lamp as he leans in and your breath hitches because he's finally kissing you. It's soft, slow, sensual because he's kissing you like he means it. You believe every word of his flirtatious flattery because he's kissing you like you're _everything_ to him. There's a soft whine when he pulls away and you realise it's come from you.

It's crazy, but you're sure it's the best kiss of your life. And you want it to continue. You have no qualms about tugging him close and fusing your mouth with his once more. He's right, you do like to take charge and you prove it, kissing him fervently with all the passion you're capable of. Your hands find their way to his hair, carding through the soft chestnut locks and he moans quietly. You could stand like this forever, enveloped in Bucky's arms and letting him kiss you into oblivion. At least, that's what you think until you feel the growing hardness brushing urgently against your thigh.

"Bucky," you gasp out. "Take me to bed."

Giggles stream from your mouth when Bucky wordlessly picks you up and carries you to his bedroom. You trail kisses from his jawline, hungrily seeking out his most sensitive spots. He groans, and you smirk against his skin, before sucking at the crook of his neck, your tongue soothing the sting of your teeth. He stumbles slightly but catches himself in time and closes the bedroom door with his foot.

Bucky slams your back against the door and you moan as he dives in, scraping his teeth along the shell of your ear. You writhe, hands yanking at his hair and he groans loudly, pink lips falling open and eyes fluttering shut. He's already wrecked, mindlessly grinding his hips into yours and eliciting a whimper.

"You do look beautiful in this dress," he says in between kisses. "Bet you'll look even more damn gorgeous out of it."

You feel the ground beneath your feet as Bucky sets you down. He chuckles when you wobble slightly, hands curled over his shoulders to steady yourself. He lowers himself to his knees, his nose trailing down over the silky material of your dress. He smirks up at you, lust blown eyes twinkling with a look that tells you to prepare yourself for the best sex of your life and you gulp. He licks his lips in an obscene way and you whimper.

Bucky's surprisingly sweet, taking his time to carefully undo the straps of your high heels before sliding them off. His hand slips through the slit of your skirt in an upwards glide over your leg. You can feel arousal pooling low in your belly, heat creeping over your skin and blanketing you in wanton desire. You're aching for him, his touch, his mouth, his _everything_ by the time he takes your dress off. His jaw is clenched in a tight line, he's holding himself back and you wish he'd stop. God, you just want him to devour you already. A jolt of pleasure courses through you when you see his eyes blacken as he looks you over.

"You're fuckin' gorgeous, sweetheart." he groans in a way that's almost pained.

"And you're wearing far too many clothes." you huff.

Bucky grins, holding his arms out.

"Be my guest."

You try, honestly you do, you try to be as careful with his suit as he was with your dress but _fuck_ , it's tasking when you want him naked. Naked and on you, under you, any way he'll have you. His jacket is the first to go and you're sure a few buttons pop off when you all but tear his shirt off to reveal his broad shoulders. He's toned, magnificently so, lean muscle and lithe definition. You press hot kisses to his hard chest as your fingers scrabble at his belt. He's wearing black boxer briefs that are the right side of snug and you don't stand on ceremony, yanking them down.

Bucky grins, chest swelling with pride as you ogle him. Your mind is fogging over with want, and you're surprised you don't explode when he reaches for you again. You squeak when your back hits the mattress. There's no time to think because he's on top of you, hardness digging into your hip bone as he kisses you over, hands marking a path of their own.

"So wet already." he murmurs appreciatively.

His fingers tease you, circling everywhere but the one place you really want them as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling over the hardened nub and it's all so overwhelming. You mumble out garbled nonsense, you think it's a beg for him to fuck you because he chuckles darkly and ignores your request. Still, he kisses lower until he's settled between your legs and after a look that makes your _whole body_ shiver, dips his head. The moan that falls from your lips is inhuman, primal, animalistic and you buck your hips up but he pins them down, moaning about how sweet you taste before proceeding to utterly _ruin_ you. He's relentless, ravishing you until you're screaming his name because it's the only word you know.

Bucky's mouth is glistening as he works his way back up, his plush mouth pink and grinning because he's a _devious_ motherfucker who knows exactly how good he is at this. He's not smug, just thrilled to have seen you come undone for _him_. In your blissful haze, you lower a hand and wrap it around his cock and he groans out a few choice curses. He's hard, hot and leaking as you stroke him teasingly. His eyes flutter close, lashes dancing against those defined cheekbones and then he grabs your wrist.

"You gotta stop, sweetheart," he pleads, even though it pains him to say it. " _Shit_ , you've gotta stop 'cause I wanna fuck you."

Your mewl tells him you want that too, very much so and he's hastily groping for something in his bedside drawer. He rips the foil packet open with his teeth and you giggle, the sight fuelling your arousal and then he's between your legs again, your legs tight around his waist.

"You okay?" he murmurs softly, kissing you deeply. "You ready?"

"Yes, Bucky, yes." you whine impatiently, and he smiles against your lips.

Bucky bites his lip as he pushes into you and you almost implode on the spot. He moves slowly, letting you adjust and searching your face for any discomfort but you capture his lips in a sloppy kiss, urging him to move because he feels so damn good. He hums and begins to rock faster, your fingernails biting angry red crescents into his shoulders.

" _More_ , Bucky," you beg. "I want more."

That's the last coherent thought you remember because he angles your hips up and shows you just how much he's been holding back. You gasp at the sudden bruising pace, your shudder indicating he's found _that_ spot and he doesn't hesitate, driving into you over and over. It's becoming too much, you can't take how hot you feel pressed to Bucky like that and the way he moans your name is driving you crazy. Your fingernails rake down his back and he takes it as an invitation to thrust harder, lips trailing kisses all over your neck and when he bites down on a particular spot, you lose your mind.

A loud, shaky moan catches in your throat and you writhe around him, your orgasm washing over you in waves, a beautiful sight that Bucky commits to his memory before he too, tips over the edge. Your skin tingles and you feel fuzzy, grounded only by the weight of his body on yours. You're in no hurry to move, content to bask in the warmth and in Bucky. This handsome _devil_ of a man who's already ensnared your heart.

Bucky’s breathing finally evens out and he captures your lips, humming into the kiss and murmuring sweet nothings about how beautiful, how perfect you are before easing himself off you. You stretch out like a cat, burrowing back into the sheets as he returns with a warm washcloth. He’s gentle, doting and thoughtful as he cleans you up and settles down beside you. You scoot closer, hoping he’ll spoon you and he chuckles, obliging because he knows exactly what you wriggling your against his pelvis means.

Bucky’s a wall of muscle against your bare back. His arms cocoon you in safety and you want to spend the rest of your life like this because you’ve never felt this way before. You feel serene and happy, cared for and wanted. He tangles his legs with yours and nuzzles his face into your hair.

“That was amazin’,” he whispers, voice growing gravelly with sleep. “You’re so perfect, sweetheart.”

“Would it be completely crazy of me to say that was the best sex I’ve ever had?” you mumble into the darkness.

“No,” he replies instantaneously and your heart skips a beat. “No, I… I know what you mean. ‘Cause I felt it too.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing it again, if you wanted to. And… maybe more.”

“I want that too,” he says, and you can tell he has a smile on his handsome face. “Stay, please? I’ll make you breakfast in the mornin’.”

“Pancakes?” you ask hopefully.

“Anythin’ you want,” he agrees without skipping a beat. “I’d do anythin’ to make you happy, sweetheart.”

Neither of you says it, even though it hangs in the air between you. It’s right there, the unmistakable feeling that there’s more to your chemistry than just sex. It scares you. You’ve never loved anyone before. You don’t think anyone has loved _you_ before. And yet, it’s the most thrilling feeling in the entire world. You can’t imagine a future that doesn’t include Bucky. You don’t want to. As his snores echo, you grope for your phone and send a text to Natasha and Wanda.

 **You:** _Operation Husband = success_.


	2. The Conversation About Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Think along the lines of “I was never good at anything else” and “you have to know when to walk away”. From the conversation it should be clear that although they love their work, they secretly want to settle down and go straight. It’s very tragic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Here we are with part two. I hope you're enjoying the story, there's plenty of romance, smut and action in this one. It's definitely than some of the other things I've currently been writing, but it's good to get stuck in with a real plot every now and again.
> 
> I am always up for hearing your comments and feedback. Thank you so much to everyone who reads, comments, leaves kudos... you're all amazing.
> 
> Thank you to the ever wonderful [Reality Rejection Service](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5508961/) for being my beta reader, goodness knows how messy my grammar would be without you.

It's a warm, sunny day that leaves the city of New York melting. Only a gentle breeze whips through the air, leaves rustling in its wake. It's a typical Saturday afternoon in July. Ice cream drips all over the sidewalk as children complain to their parents. Old women perch on park benches, fanning themselves with their hands. A group of teenage boys strikes up a game of Frisbee, their shirts lying under a tree where girls sit giggling at them.

"There you are!" cries Pepper Potts, as you and Natasha and Wanda come running into the well air-conditioned suite in one of the fanciest hotels on the Upper East side.

"I'm sorry I'm late." you apologise, disappearing around the back of the enormous three-panelled mirror.

You throw your clothes over it, the garments haphazardly strewn here and there in your hurry. Timeliness is something you pride yourself on. In your line of work, it's mandatory. You've never been late before, and you  _ refuse _ to break that streak on your  _ wedding _ of all days. You're in and out of the shower in record time. You've got a particular knack for that, the skill necessitated by a job you had in Wakanda when you were sixteen. Not that it appeases Pepper, she crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently.

"Where were you?" she inquires, and you exchange a look with your friends.

* * *

_ BANG. _

_ The mercenary narrowly avoids Natasha's bullet, firing his own gun in her direction before coming after you. You hurriedly dig through the car trunk, triumphantly snatching up the brown file you're looking for. His gun is aimed at you now, but you raise your leg to his height, kicking him in the arm and throwing his aim off. The bullet whips past your ear and you're thankful you still keep up training with Natasha. The mercenary's cry of frustration is muffled by his balaclava and he lashes out, his heavy boot connecting with your hip. _

_ That one hurt. And it's probably going to bruise. Not a good look considering you have a honeymoon to leave for tomorrow morning. Bikinis and bruises aren't a good combination. If you make it out alive that is, you've caused quite the pile up on the highway. _

* * *

"Traffic." you state in a voice that's steady and unfaltering.

Pepper buys it.  _ Of course _ she does. Lies are second nature to you. There's no fancy tricks, no nonsense about all good lies containing a portion of truth. Lies are what you know. It's what you were raised in. Sure, it helps that Pepper is well convinced that you would rather die than miss your own wedding day. Not that it's difficult to convince her, you're sure that anyone within a six-mile radius of New York knows of your impending marriage. So far, it's the one thing you've not been secretive about.

And why shouldn't you be? It's the happiest day of your life. A day you never thought would come and quite frankly, a day you never thought you deserved but Bucky's changed all that.

You're not given much of a chance to daydream about Bucky. Not when Pepper is barking out orders, a job she excels at to her credit. She's a pure soul, untarnished and unburnt, otherwise you'd have brought her into the crew the second Tony introduced you to her.  _ Organisation and order _ . Two attributes that meant she was the only viable candidate for your wedding planner. Pepper Potts means business and she does not disappoint.

In record breaking time, your hair's been attended to. Not without a few sharp jabs from Pepper to ensure it's just perfect, of course. You've opted for fairly natural make-up, nothing garrish and overdone. Enough to accentuate your features without mirroring the icing on the wedding cake. It's an odd sensation, your reflection looks back at you with the most earnest of smiles. Happiness becomes you. Bright eyes, warmth in your cheeks and an upward curve of your lips that's been permanent since the fateful night you met Bucky. It's strange to think it was only six weeks ago because you're unable to imagine a life without him.

Your dress is next, Natasha and Wanda having already changed into theirs. Both women are draped in elegant black silk that sits at floor length. A strange colour choice considering the occasion, maybe, but elegance and sophistication spring to mind. Wanda's positively ethereal, her eyes sparkling with love and Natasha's simply stunning, ever the seductress. Their chatter fills the air, musical pleasantries and the odd clink of champagne flutes. A stark contrast to the gunshots and urgent whispers.

It all dies away when you emerge in your wedding dress. Layers of silk and chiffon, the skirt flares out just enough to make you feel like a princess. A sweetheart neckline that shows off the tiniest fraction of cleavage but still maintains an air of class. The lightest blue Sophia Webster heels you bought for the sole reason that they have "wifey for lifey" scrawled on the sole. And on your finger sits a diamond ring. Not too big, not too small. It's just right, like him.

Delicate, sophisticated, you're the picture-perfect charming bride. You walk- no,  _ float _ \- gracefully through the suite, ground barely discernible under your feet because you  _ feel _ like you're flying. Pepper watches on like a proud mother, Wanda's gasping with her hands clasped to her chest and Natasha, well, she takes you by surprise with her loud sniff. You hurry to wrap your arms around her.

"I'm okay." She smiles weakly, trying not to smudge her mascara. "You just look absolutely beautiful, that's all."

You're on the precipice of tears yourself, overwhelmed with emotions you didn't even know you were capable of. Natasha huffs crossly, her gentle finger swiping away any possible waterworks. Luckily, when Wanda assaults you with a bear hug her excitement fuels your own until you're elated again. The hullabaloo dies down when Tony enters the room, not bothering with so much as a knock. You gave him a keycard earlier because he would have found his way in without one. He greets Pepper first and foremost, before approaching you.

"Hey, gorgeous. Ready to get this party started?" he asks, taking off his sunglasses with gusto.

You turn to face him, swishing the skirt of your dress in a regal fashion.

"How do I look?"

"Not bad, a solid six out of ten." He jokes and Pepper immediately scolds him. "I'm kidding. You look beautiful. He won't know what's hit him."

"Thanks, Tony."

His compliment is genuine. It always is. You smile, hugging him as best as you can without creasing your dress. He extends his arm out to you, his eyes full of a warmth that only you can understand. Tony is exactly the right person to walk you down the aisle. Whatever the nature of your relationship, you love and trust him unconditionally. He holds you in equal esteem so your hand nestles in the crook of his elbow and you collect yourself with a deep breath.

"Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

In a suite at the other end of the hotel, Bucky is pacing frantically, itching to keep his hands from running through his hair. It's a nervous habit, one his father keeps reminding him of. Steve and Sam are ready, but they're still waiting on Brock who is running a good twenty minutes late. No sooner does he ring Brock for the tenth time does he come bursting through the door, reeling off an apology and some excuse about traffic on the highway. Apparently, some woman had caused  _ quite _ the pileup.

Brock shucks his sweatpants in lieu of something smarter and Bucky takes the opportunity to glance in the mirror one final time. He's relatively pleased with what he finds. A sharp black suit, slick and tapered to a perfect fit. Well, near perfect. It's a little tight because he's put in a few hours at the gym as a pre-wedding ritual and he's confident she'll appreciate it. Never one to act shy about her attraction to him, he goes out of his way to render her into a swooning maiden as often as he can. A crisp white shirt and a neat black tie complete the ensemble. As far as things go, he looks pretty good.

It's at the altar that the realisation dawns on Bucky; he's getting married. To her.

"Nervous?" asks Steve, nudging him gently. "Come on, it's not like you've only known her for six weeks. Oh, wait…"

Bucky elbows his best friend, but he's helpless to the grin that turns into a few hearty chuckles. In truth, it has been a whirlwind romance. He wasn't sure what came over him when he proposed to her the morning after their first night together. He remembers only how beautiful she looked, with her sleepy smile and glazed eyes. She had pressed a kiss to his nose and murmured morning pleasantries, her hair tousled and grey sheets tangled around her bare skin. He knew in his heart, that she was the one.

There was no hesitation in her reply, no reserve in the way she said yes as if it was the only thing she knew in the world. Bucky's been on cloud nine ever since.

The music begins, shattering his bubble of thoughts and he exhales, turning to his side to watch the bridesmaids walk down the aisle. There are three of them, her friends; Natasha Romanoff, her oldest friend; Wanda Maximoff; a little younger than her but a close friend nonetheless; Pepper Potts, the wedding planner and the kindest woman he's ever met.

And then, there's her. Bucky's breath catches the second she comes into view. She's a breathtaking vision in her dress, a dream come true and his heart is racing at a million miles an hour whilst a voice in his brain (that sounds suspiciously like Sam) wonders "how did you get so lucky?". He can't see her face clearly enough under the veil, but he doesn't need to. He knows she's mirroring his enormous smile, a smile that's rife with excitement and anxiety in equal measure.

Tony squeezes her shoulder affectionately when they reach the altar. The man murmurs something, and Bucky feels a pang of jealousy which is out of sorts considering she's about to spend the rest of her life with  _ him _ . He knows Tony is her best friend, but that doesn't mean he has to like the man. There's just something about Tony that rubs him the wrong way, but he pushes disconcerting images of her and Tony Stark out of his mind.

She stands before him, patiently waiting for her veil to be raised and he does so dutifully. Sure enough, there's that smile that has him falling in love in love over again. She's radiant, glowing with happiness and she giggles at his discreet wink. Bucky's never felt so in love.

* * *

Husband and wife. Words you never thought you'd say. It's a small celebration, private and intimate. Most of the guests consist of Bucky's close family. All of whom Natasha did a thorough background check on and you remind yourself you shouldn't know half the things you do. It's easy enough, an act you execute well. (Except for Great Aunt Gladys- you'll have to find a way to tell Bucky about the six  _ life-size _ cardboard cutouts of Kenneth Branagh she's ordered in the past year. You're struggling to hold  _ that _ secret.)

Jarvis and Clint have chairs reserved for their respective partners- even Scott Lang has made it. He's been under lock and key in a Russian prison as of late, something you purposefully fail to mention to Bucky when you introduce them. "Vacation" is a sufficient alibi. Pietro has brought along his boyfriend and he almost steals the show. Not that you would mind much. After a lifetime of hiding in the shadows, living through aliases, never staying put long enough, all the attention is overwhelming. You remind yourself you don't need to be camera shy because this is your life now. All those things that were a dream are a now a reality.

It seems like an opportune moment to make your escape. It's been a whirlwind day, the dreamiest yet but you're over the festivities. All that matters now to you is your new husband. Leaving the party to continue well into the morning, you take the elevator up to the honeymoon suite, all the while giggling like teenagers and sharing kisses. You scold Bucky when he gets too handsy in the elevator and he pouts back at you as the doors ping open.

"Uh uh." He says, stopping you as you make to leave.

There's a mischievous grin for your benefit, before he sweeps you up in his arms, dress and all. Cheesy, romantic and entirely over the top. You never imagined yourself to be fonds of such gestures, but after a lifetime of coldness, nothing makes you happier.

"Keeping up traditions?" you giggle, trying not to topple over as you slide the keycard into the door.

"Man should carry his wife over the threshold."

"Bucky, we're in a hotel."

"Same difference." He scoffs, trying to squeeze the pair of you through the door.

You bunch up the dress, drawing the chiffon and lace towards yourself as Bucky grunts with effort. It's like pushing a cream puff through a keyhole, messy ending included. With one final push, Bucky stumbles through the door, catapulting you both to the floor.

"Shit, are you alright, doll?" asks Bucky worriedly, peeling through layers of your dress.

"I think my dress broke the fall."

"This dress really is something." He smiles, getting to his feet.

He reaches out a hand and helps you up, pulling you against his chest and you flatten your palms against him. His eyes zero in on you biting your lip. Your fingers glide down the length of his chest, batting your eyelashes all the while as the energy between you changes. You're caught between a crossroads; on one hand you want him to ravish you, devour you whole because as wonderful as the last six weeks have been you know there's a roughness to him and then on the other, you want to show him how much you love him, you want to feel loved and be reminded that you are deserving of it.

Your inner turmoil stews, Bucky oblivious to it and his lustful expression brings you back to the moment with a coy smile.

"Help me out of my dress?"

Bucky's eyes darken with desire and you're lifted off your feet again. Your arms wrap themselves around his neck as he carries you to bed. He kisses you deeply, caressing your tongue with his and it feels so right. You memorise the way his mouth moves against yours because God, if there's one thing he's inherently perfect at, it's kissing you.

The mattress depresses beneath your weight as he deposits you on the bed and then he's crouching in front of you, eyes filled with wonder and lust. He lifts your foot to his knee, carefully pulling off your heel and kissing your ankle, before repeating with the other foot. It's a tender gesture, a little unfamiliar but there's true love behind it, a signal that there's no part of you he doesn't adore.

Bucky kisses his way up your leg, heat rising with every peck of his lips and when he reaches the white lace garter hidden under your dress, his eyes blacken entirely. There's a wolfish smirk on his lips as he raises his head to capture your lips once more.

It's unbearable, the tension. It's teasing and tantalising and you can't stand it. You decide that you have the rest of your life to let Bucky make love to you. Right now, you need him to  _ devour _ you. A hand grabs at his tie, yanking him close and you swallow his groan as your hands work his shirt buttons with great haste. He unzips your dress, his own urgency growing. Your dress is carefully draped over the back of an armchair whereas his own shirt lands carelessly on the floor, his black pants following shortly.

Propped up on your elbows, you admire your husband standing there in nothing save for a pair of black boxer briefs. Your eyes trail from his muscular thighs over the noticeable outline of his cock to the defined planes of his abs and chest up to his smirking face. He's a walking wet dream, a handsome man from your wildest fantasies- and he's  _ yours _ . His plush bottom lip is tucked between his teeth, his pupils blown wide and the dirty thoughts racing through his mind are courtesy of your white lace panties and matching bra, both which serve very little purpose except to seduce him. A low growl, and he pounces.

" _ Bucky _ ."

He loves the way you moan his name, not that you can do much else when he grinds his hips against yours like that. Your hands find home in his hair, pulling on the right side of pain and the noise he makes is positively primal. Lips ghost over your collarbone as your bra joins the piling garments on the floor and no sooner does the cool air hit your bared breasts does Bucky wrap his mouth around a nipple. You squirm beneath him, arching your back and he chuckles, his hand cupping your other breast. You yelp, a nipple pinched between his fingers and he relishes in your reaction.

Kisses scatter down your body, stopping when Bucky catches sight of a purple bruise on your hip bone. Worry floods his eyes.

"How'd you get this?"

* * *

_ "Jesus, that looks pretty nasty." Cringes Tony, as you lift your shirt to show him your battle wound. _

_ "He's got a kick to him worse than that scotch you like so much." you grinned, lowering your shirt again. "Lucky it's just one." _

_ "Yeah, good luck explaining that to your husband-to-be." _

* * *

"Oh, I walked into a desk earlier. I'm so clumsy sometimes." you lie easily, voice unwavering. "I've heard kisses make it better."

"I'll bet they do." He chuckles, gently pressing his lips to the bruise.

You hiss, and he kisses it again, more soothingly. Grabbing one of the many fluffy pillows on the bed, he slides it under your hips, settling himself between your thighs with a cheeky wink. It's unbearable, bordering on painful because you can think of little except for the throbbing between your legs. And then, a sigh rings through the air when Bucky dips his head, your eyes rolling back in bliss. Your thighs immediately clamp around his head, his tongue flicking against your clit as a finger teases your entrance. He hums at the wetness he finds there, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure to your core. Your thighs tremble as the coil in your belly tightens impossibly. Bucky feels it too, sliding his fingers in and curling them as he sucks at your clit with all the fervour of a starving man. A gasp of Bucky's name is the only warning he's granted as you come undone, your toes curling and your vision blackening. Ecstasy engulfs you, your legs falling limp and Bucky presses soft kisses to your thighs as you come down from your high.

Pleased with himself, Bucky moves back up your body and captures your lips in another passionate kiss. He settles down beside you, arms cocooning you and there's a great grin that greets you when you find the strength to open your eyes. Without a second thought, you roll on top of him with hot, open-mouthed kisses that render him a breathless mess.

"Keen much, sweetheart?" he chuckles, as you scrape your teeth along the shell of his ear.

"I married you, I think we're past keen."

A nibble of his bottom lip, a nip at his collarbone, wet kisses planted across his torso. Your hands follow the trail your mouth traces down his chest. You tease him in equal measure, running your tongue over every muscle before following the small tuft of dark hair under his navel. He's leaking through the front of his underwear, the wet spot sparking a fresh wave of arousal low in your belly. You palm at him through the cotton, Bucky groans because he's aching for you.

A moan escapes you. You'll never tire of seeing him naked, hot and hard, sprawled out for you and wordlessly, you balance your hands on his thighs and suck his cock into your mouth. Bucky growls lowly and you take him in deeper, running your tongue along a vein on the underside of his shaft. You move up and down, turned on by the velvety weight of him in your mouth and he twitches, your tongue swirling over the tip. Without warning, you draw him in deep until he hits the back of your throat and he curses loudly, pulling you off him abruptly.

Bucky doesn't stand on ceremony, kissing you fiercely as he flips you on to your back. Eagerly, you kiss him back and he swallows the moan that catches in your throat when you feel him nudge at your entrance. You're begging for him and he obliges, entering you slowly and a tandem of gasps penetrate the tension hanging heavy in the air. Your legs wrap around his waist, the heel of your foot digging into his tailbone to draw him in deeper and he chokes out your name. You don't want it slow, you don't want it soft or gentle. You just need him to fuck you raw.

The bed groans under your weight, shifting with every ruthless thrust Bucky exacts on you and you're certain you've never felt such dizzying pleasure before. Your orgasm takes you by surprise, the feel of Bucky suddenly overwhelming and you're screaming his name, walls fluttering and it triggers his release too. He comes with a gruff shout of your name, body trembling against yours as warmth floods you. It's earth-shattering, overwhelming and you're sure you black out for a few seconds, rousing to sparing kisses peppered over your cheeks.

You curl around Bucky, ear pressed to his chest and breath steadying to the rhythm of his heartbeat. There's a sated expression gracing his features, his hands lazily drawing circles on your back. Wracked with exhaustion, you lean over to turn the light off, snuggling back down into your husband's arms.

"Goodnight, Mr. Barnes. I love you."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Barnes. I love you too."

* * *

You wake to the sound of the waves softly crashing against the shore. More at peace than you have ever been in a very long time, you let yourself lie in the silky sheets a little longer. You and Bucky arrived exactly five days ago, taking a small private plane to reach the little island.

The Brando is a stunning hotel. No,  _ paradise _ , is a much more apt description. Situated in French Polynesia, it's surrounded by palm trees, white sand and a sparkling blue lagoon. With only thirty-five villas, it's small and somewhat secluded. Exactly what you need. You've never been away from the world that long but Bucky makes it worthwhile. Being marooned on a tropical island has never been so wonderful.

You both promise that for the duration of your honeymoon you'll ignore the rest of the world and your lives back home. Mobile phones are switched off, placed in bedside tables and dutifully forgotten about. Instead, you spend your days frolicking in the ocean and lazing on the hot sand, sipping cocktails (whiskey for Bucky) and giggling, unable to keep your hands off each other.

After two days in this fashion, you insist you actually explore what the island has to offer, and so you take a boat out to watch the whales before returning for some much-needed hours in the spa. Bucky wrinkles his nose at the idea of a couples massage, he isn't so keen on a random stranger getting handsy with him, but, no sooner does the masseuse dig his fingers into his shoulders, does Bucky melt into a puddle of bliss. Your giggles earn you a lazy roll of his eyes, and he insists on spending the following day kayaking, canoeing, hiking and swimming, before thoroughly ravishing you until the early hours of the morning.

Bucky's eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling with every breath. The thin, white bedsheet does little to conceal him, and in the morning sunshine, you let your eyes travel over his tanned skin, feeling your pulse quicken as you take in the defined lines of his stomach and the thick muscles of his thighs. Angry red crescents litter his chest and shoulders, and you giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He mumbles under his breath as you slip your arms into your robe and patter quietly out the french doors on to the beachfront veranda.

There's a light breeze, and you inhale in the salty air, wondering how you got so lucky. It really is paradise out here, and you question if you really deserve this, or him. Everything you do, it falls into a grey area. As for everything you had done before breaking free of your agency, well, there was no use lamenting over it now. What's done is done.

Bucky couldn't know. He could never know. You hate lying to him about who you really are, but, it would only put him in so much danger and you're not willing to take that risk. Not to mention… what would he think? He's under the strong impression that you're an event planner. He has no idea that you really spend your days tracking down secrets and selling them to the highest bidder. At least, that's what you used to do. It ends now. A promise you made to yourself, giving up your former life in exchange for a new one with Bucky.

A hum of approval shatters your thoughts, and you compose yourself in time for Bucky's arms to wind around your waist. You let him pull you close and press a kiss to your neck, smiling in the serenity of it all.

"We should take an early retirement." he whispers, his voice still husky with sleep. "Move here and live out our lives on the beach."

Quiet giggles ripple through the air. They're for his benefit really, and you hope that one day soon your knee-jerk reactions will be full of light and love rather than a habitual farce designed to appease someone. The truth is, you know boredom would inevitably creep in. A week or two is a decent proportion of time to ignore the world. Forever seems too long, even with the inclusion of Bucky.

"It would be nice to live out this part a little longer." you murmur eventually.

Bucky doesn't answer. A nip of your earlobe has you melting against him and he groans quietly at the incessant press of your ass backing against him. Your hands curve around the handrail, clutching desperately as your knees grow weak. Kisses are scattered down your neck, Bucky's cock hard on your hip. His fingers squeeze your waist briefly, before roaming to your front and tugging at the knot that holds your robe together. The movement elicits a squeak as you clutch the material quickly.

"Someone could see!" you whisper, words turning into a moan when Bucky leans down to kiss the spot where your neck and shoulder meet.

"There's no-one else here but us, sweetheart." he whispers back, smiling as you close your eyes, clearly enjoying his touch.

You whimper a half-hearted rebuttal, but, Bucky quickly shushes you with another nip at your ear. Your hands tighten around the handrail and he takes the opportunity to slide the robe down. It pools at your feet and a delightful shiver jolts through you. It feels illicit, the beach stretched out before you as Bucky wreaks pleasure on your naked body. There's a ravenous hunger about the way he sucks at the spot under your ear, tongue flicking across your skin and you writhe in Bucky's arms. The warmth of his mouth ignites your body further, your head dropping back on to his shoulder as you enjoy the sensation.

A groan reverberates in Bucky's chest as his hands cup your breasts, belly fluttering as he rolls your nipples between his fingers. Desire clouds your head, a whine inciting Bucky to let one hand drift lower, inch by inch at an almost excruciating pace until you're both moaning loudly when his fingers glide through your wetness. It's teasing at first, slow circles that have you crying out for him.

Bucky's lips curve into a sexy smirk, you can feel it against your shoulder. In one swift movement, he buries himself in your heat and you're mewling at the delicious sting of him stretching you. It's so intense, the pleasure is so overwhelming you're dizzy. You barely register the sweet words he's whispering in your ear, instead looping an arm back to fist your fingers in his hair. He sets a steady rhythm, intent on driving you insane with pleasure. You feel yourself unravelling, drowning in his scent as he drives you into with a sultry passion.

"Bucky," you gasp out. "Bucky, I'm so close."

"Me too," he grunts, quickening his hips. "I'm right behind you. Come for me, I wanna feel you come."

You let go, anchoring yourself to Bucky as you find your release. His arms tighten around you as he groans your name into your hair, hips juddering as he spills into you and you moan breathlessly, waves of pleasure rocking your body. You sink into one another, content and satisfied until Bucky breaks the spell.

"You okay, sweetheart?" asks Bucky, leaning down to run kisses along your neck.

You mumble something unintelligible, swatting his thigh when he chuckles. He nips at your ear, and you squirm beneath him. He chuckles again and hoists you into his arms.

"Come on, let's go take a shower."

The shower ends up taking much longer than necessary, but it's for all the right reasons. You eventually shooed Bucky, a feat that makes him chuckle because you claim he's only distracting you. Accepting that the honeymoon is well and truly over, he retreats back to the bedroom and when you emerge, he's retrieved his mobile phone from the bedside table, switching it on for the first time in a week.

A flurry of Facebook notifications, tags on Instagram and Bucky grimaces as his phone struggles under the stress of messages congratulating him on his nuptials. You're slotting your earrings back in when he moves behind you, enveloping you in an embrace. Reflections meet in the mirror, a goofy smile replies to your narrowed eyes. You slide your engagement and wedding rings back on, waiting for Bucky to voice what he's simpering about.

"Sweetheart..."

There it is.

"What is it, Bucky?"

"I know we're supposed to fly back home, but, d'you think we could make a stop in DC?"

"Why?"

"Alex is being presented with an award, and he wants us there. It would mean a lot to him."

"God, we've only been married a week and already you're asking me for permission." you tease. "Don't be silly, Bucky. Of course, we'll go."

* * *

 

It's simple enough redirecting your flight. As a wedding present of sorts, Tony chartered you a private jet. It's lavish, extravagant but if you can't indulge in luxuries on your honeymoon, then when can you? Bucky was somewhat skeptical, his demeanour clear indication enough that he isn't a fan of " _that Stark dude_ " but his jealousy is easily quelled with admission to the Mile-High Club. Smugness oozes off him when you finally land in Washington DC, but you're a little preoccupied with the customs officer examining your passport.

Technically, there's nothing of concern on your record. Any official version of you that exists is a careful curation of a life you haven't lived. Of course, certain truths can be found. You are an orphan, you have spent summers in Europe, you're a New Yorker through and through. Everything else is a fabrication, an existence created by Tony hacking into government systems and documents forged by Wanda. You've always been careful enough to not land yourself in a compromising position. Nevertheless, it's still a test of your nerves every time you encounter national security.

The cool, air-conditioned Mercedes-Benz is a welcome sight for you, breathing more freely as it speeds through the city streets to the hotel where arrangements have been made. Appropriate black-tie attire waits for you in an elegant yet luxurious suite. Bucky's fiddling with his bow-tie and you examine yourself in the full-length mirror. It's a one-shoulder gown, midnight black, that floats to the floor. Decorated opulently with golden toned sequins, and the waist had a ruched effect, and up one side of the gown was a split, daring and risque, but somehow still very tasteful. Needless to say, that's become quite the feature on any dresses you wear around your husband.

"You look beautiful, sweetheart." he says sincerely, almost seductively.

His blue eyes sparkle at you in the mirror, and then he's dipping his head, trailing kisses down your neck and bared shoulder.

"Bucky, we'll be late." you whine, arching into his touch.

"You don't seem like you're in a hurry." he reasons, his fingers lazily tracing circles over your hips.

"I'm not, but, tonight's not about us." you reply, swatting him away so you can straighten out his bow tie.

"Think you'll be the centre of attention in that dress." he winks, pecking your lips sweetly, as not to smudge your lipstick.

"Hm, well, let's go test that theory, shall we?"

You might look beautiful in your dress, but, Bucky looks downright handsome in his sleek navy tuxedo, and it's painfully obvious that every other woman in the room agrees, too. Not that he has eyes for any of them. Still, it didn't escape your attention, and you spend the duration of the evening making it clear that he is  _ yours _ .

A continuous exchange of pleasantries after pleasantries, ever the dutiful wife you are. Comments are made about the venue, praises are sung about the choice of band. You charm your way through powerful businessmen, hungry reporters and excitable housewives. Eventually, you reach Bucky's boss, Alexander Pierce, who appears delighted by your presence.

"Sorry to cut the honeymoon short." he apologises, hugging Bucky.

"You didn't do anything. We're so happy to be here and support you." you're full of reassurances, kissing his cheeks.

"And I'm happy you could make it. Especially as you're now family." he smiles widely. "Come on, James, why don't we go get some drinks?"

Placing an arm on Bucky's shoulder, Pierce pulls him away and in the general direction of the open bar. You giggle at the pout flung over Pierce's shoulder, but it's endearing how dedicated your husband is to his job. Politics is a grey area, you'd be lying if you said your skills haven't been requested in the industry before. But, that's as much information anyone is privy to, non-disclosure agreements allowing. But, Bucky? Bucky believes in the goodness of politics. The ability to make a real difference in the world. He truly believes in the causes Pierce fights for, adamant he is a good man. You trust Bucky, so you trust Pierce.

Habitually, you scan the room, ensuring that a cordial smile never leaves your face. A few people nod in your direction and one man flashes you a flirtatious smile. You raise your left hand, pretending to fix your hair and his smile turns upside down, before he stalks away. And then, you spot a familiar brunette mop of hair that most certainly should be at the opposite end of the country.

"Tony? What are you doing here?" you gawk, tapping his shoulder.

"Hey, Mrs. Barnes!" he gasps, feigning surprise. "Fancy seeing you here!"

With a quick glance around the room, Tony grabs your arm and drags you out on to the deserted terrace. It's a cool night, and you cross your arms against the chill, wide eyes urging him to answer your question. Tony's smile reeks with apology.

"You know I always make a copy of any… proprietary information?" begins Tony. "And you know the job we completed the morning of your wedding?"

"Get to the point, Tony."

"I think there's weapons involved."

Tony is blunt, at least where weapons are concerned. Weapons are the reason he was half-dead when you pulled him from that cave in Afghanistan. Tony hates weapons and he'll be damned if he lets them pass him by.

"Tonight's a cover, Miss. Black thinks some of the donors tonight are behind it."

Tony scrunches his nose and you can tell Natasha must be yelling furiously through the invisible earpiece. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at how incredibly inconvenient this revelation is. Glancing at Tony expectantly, you hold your hands out.

"I hope you don't have my gear stashed somewhere because let me tell you, I'm not Clark Kent."

Tony's smile is alarming, the kind he only graces you with when he's about to make a cheeky innuendo. You flash him a warning a he digs around the inside pocket of his jacket. You're presented with a black mask, an amusing nod to superheroes and masquerades. His other pocket holds your gun and thigh holster, two items you packed away safely before signing your marriage certificate. You never thought you'd see them again.

Quick as a whip, you tuck them away under your dress. Good timing, as Bucky appears bearing two glasses of champagne and a resolute frown you've come to associate with Tony's presence.

"Tony Stark." he says stoically. "What in the world are you doing here?"

"Barnes," says Tony cheerily. "You're looking all dapper. Nice and bronzed too, looks almost as good as my spray tan."

Bucky offers a half-hearted smile as you accept a glass of champagne, Tony whizzing up some excuse about wanting to invest more in the greater good of the United States. It's a pathetic alibi, even with Tony's ability to spin tales it is a tad farfetched. Thankfully, Bucky doesn't question it further, simply citing it's good to see Tony taking more interest in things that are important. You subtly stamp your heel down on Tony's heel, and he bites back his sass, heading back inside.

Bucky scowls at Tony's retreating back, but, there's no time to express his jealousy, you're ushering him back inside for the evening's about to start. The role of a lifetime, Bucky's doting wife, continues with your hand nestled in the crook of his elbow; laughing at the right times during speeches; it's a flawless performance that disguises how dramatically your mindset has changed.

Enraptured by a presentation on youth programmes, Bucky fails to notice the way your eyes flit through the room. Tony waits at the bar, a drink in his hand. Upon closer inspection, a blonde you originally thought was a cellist is Natasha is a wig. You guess Clint is waiting in one of the many sleek cars parked outside. Hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses and a full beard is Pietro, nose buried in a reporter's notebook. A wave of sadness sweeps through you, it seems your crew is doing just fine without their leader.

There's a subtle nod that ripples through the four of you. A stretch on your tiptoes, a whispered excuse of needing the ladies' room and you're just another face in the crowd. Surreptitiously, you weave through the crowd, keeping your head low and treading lightly in your high heels. Tony falls into step beside you, pointing out a deserted hallway. An extended palm reveals an earpiece and no sooner do you switch it on, Clint's voice filters through.

"... there should be a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. I'm picking up heat signatures."

You approach slowly, footsteps stealthy as you press an ear to the gap between the double doors, trying to decipher what's being said. It's futile, the conversation muffled whispers and Tony nods at an open window. He ducks through it and you stare at him incredulously.

"I'm wearing Valentino!"

Your appalled hiss is met with a scoff and Tony holds out his hand, helping you through without tearing your dress on any loose chippings. The voices are louder out here and much clearer. It sounds like men, at least four, but most likely five, and they're speaking in rapid-fire Russian. You're a little rusty, and Tony's hopeless as he instructs Natasha to translate. Crouched as close to the open window as possible, the one thing that's inherently identifiable to both you and Tony are a series of clicking sounds.

Guns. Big guns.

The discomfort is evident in Tony's face. He blinks in quick succession and you wrap a hand around his, squeezing in what you hope is reassuring fashion. It brings him back to the moment, grounding him as suddenly, heavily accented English drifts through the air.

"And what of Pierce? He does not want to greet the man filling his pockets?"

Pierce?

"As you're aware, Mr. Pierce is currently accepting a very prestigious award."

Alexander Pierce?

"Yes, an award made possible through our efforts."

"I assure you he is extremely grateful."

Russian resumes once more and you're left under the window, the weight of what you've witnessed heavy on your shoulders. Shaky breaths pass through your lips, your own shock mirrored on Tony's face. You're not stupid enough to consider politicians as pure, angelic souls. They're all corrupt in their own way, driven by agendas and personal gain as much as the next person. But, Pierce? Alexander Pierce? The man Bucky holds in such high esteem.

_ Bucky _ .

There's a thread of text messages from him, each one as apologetic as the next because as Pierce's PA, he has to remain by his side for all the interviews. He tells you to go back to the hotel, order room service and relax, he promises he'll leave as soon as he can because he loves you so much. Autopilot kicks in and you reply with as many love heart emojis as is acceptable before letting Tony lead you to a black Jaguar XF, Clint at the wheel and Natasha and Pietro already belted in. For once, your crew is at just at much of a loss as you are.

Stragglers are all that remain in the hotel bar. You're still on autopilot, cruising through the room to the table in the corner. It's far enough from sharp ears, affords you a view of the room and if need be, three possible exit strategies. Wanda and Scott join you, sliding into the empty seats. A glass of vodka is forced into your hand and you don't need to look up to know it's Natasha. You smile, the vodka burning your throat dreadfully but it does the trick.

"Retirement suits you, boss," comments Clint. "You look good."

You laugh shortly, letting Natasha top up your glass.

"I'm starting to think retirement doesn't exist," you say wryly. "At least not in this line of work."

Six pairs of eyes focus on you, a mixture of anticipation and surprise reflected in each one. No-one dares to say anything, unwilling to jump to any conclusions. Are you saying what they think you're saying?

"Do you really think Pierce is up to something?" asks Wanda, breaking the silence.

"Sure sounded that way." nods Tony, slumping back in his chair.

"I didn't ask what it sounded like."

"The Russian version didn't sound much better," adds Natasha. "If they really are dealing in black market weapons, we may not be able to just let this one slide."

Bickering, and lots of it. Everyone seems to have a varying opinion and whilst it's all expressed in hushed whispers, the chatter is an annoying buzz you quickly tune out. It's funny, the position you find yourself in. A beautiful dress, a charming husband, a comforting home to return to… all your wishes come true and yet, you're living your former life. Conspiracy theories, power-hungry men, sneaking around… it makes you laugh and, in the process, alarming your crew. Perhaps things haven't changed so much after all.

"One last job," you say to their worried expressions. "That's the line isn't it? The big score."

"You don't have to."

"No, I think I do," you're firm, even though there's a smile on your face. "Look at me, I can't go five minutes without being dragged back into the circus."

"Old habits die hard." offers Natasha with an arched brow and your smile widens.

"It's the only life I've ever known," you mutter, throwing back another mouthful of vodka. "I don't know if I can give it up yet. Not when Bucky could be in danger."

"And innocent lives," pipes Pietro. "But yet, the husband is important."

There's a ripple of laughter, the loudest of which belongs to you.

"One last job," you repeat. "The big score."

"And then retirement?" poses Tony with a grin.

"And then retirement," you nod, looking around the group. "For all of us."

"I think I can get behind that." smiled Clint and Natasha whirls around to stare at him. "It's time, Nat."

"Oh God, here you go with that farm spiel again."

"Clint's right," interrupts Scott. "I have a daughter, I want to be there for her as she grows up."

"I should probably think about making an honest woman out of Pepper." mutters Tony, stroking his goatee.

Natasha sighs, and although she looks a little forlorn you know it's not really a defeat for her. She's been in the business as long as you have, raised as a spy the same as you. But even she's beginning to feel the strain, the weight of a life unlived. Her emerald eyes meet yours, an unspoken conversation exchanged.

"Well, then I suppose we'd better put a plan together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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**Author's Note:**

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